


starstruck

by plutodolohov



Series: old stories [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Afterlife, Aftermath of Sexual Assault, Age Difference, Blood, Character Death, Cheating, Coercion, Corpses, Death, Depression, Discussions of the Afterlife, Divorced Family, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Gen, Ghosts, Infidelity, Kidnapping, Lonliness, Manipulation, Miscarriage, Murder, Original Character Death(s), Out of Body Experiences, Overdosing, Pedophilia, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Serious Injuries, Sexual Assault, Suicide, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Victim Blaming, Violence, fatal overdose, metaphysical body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:27:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29202831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutodolohov/pseuds/plutodolohov
Summary: Something I wrote for my creative writing final project way back in the 10th grade.A girl who is overwhelmed by life takes her teacher's offer to help her unwind. The night turns sour quickly, and she navigates the aftermath of it, both in and out of life.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: old stories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2145507
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey, Giselle! How you doin’?!”

I turned, seeing the small, angular face of my friend Nicole. Her face was caked in makeup; I could see the layers from over ten feet away: yes, she looked pretty, but it bugged me that my friend was so fake. Her dress was something from the heavens: dark blue fading to sky blue fading to purple in a sea of satin layers, with islands of white hiding in the flood of color. The question she asked brought so many things to mind: Papa leaving again, Tony’s infidelity, Mom’s hospitalization, but I pushed them out of mind, out of sight. 

“Oh, hey girl! I’m fine, how are you?”

“Oh, you know, the usual, Brad broke up with me again!”

“Oh, girl, you know I ain’t got no sympathy for you, I told you from the start -”

“Okay, okay, no need to rub it in, girl, Jesus.”

“Come on, hurry up, we’ll be late, you know Miss Margie is a bitch about being late!”

Nicole and I ran through the hallway, evading students and teachers, before stopping at a large brown door with stickers of My Little Pony characters, with various catchphrases of false happiness in sad fading speech bubbles. 

“Ms. Jackson, Ms. Worthington, you are late! Please add a dollar to the late jar.”

“Oh, Miss Margie -”

“No ‘but’s about it, Ms. Worthington. You are late, so you put a dollar in the can.”

“Miz Margie -”

“Now, Ms. Jackson!”

I reached into my purse, throwing a wrinkled dollar bill onto Miss Margie’s desk, before stomping off towards my seat. Thoughts of the weekend filled my head, beckoned by Nicole’s question — a leg stuck out in front of me — I spilled onto the floor — smirking, high-fiving behind me — my purse spilled into the air, items dropping like bombs — gasps — a red lace thong landed on the floor.

“Ms. Jackson, pick that thing up right now! And you may walk yourself down to Mr. Hardy’s office right now!”

I grabbed my stuff and stomped out, kneeing the boy who tripped me in the face on my out, ignoring Miss Margie’s yells. First the weekend was a piece of shit, now this! I ran to the bathroom, collapsing in tears before getting even halfway across the hall, emptying the Great Lakes from my eyes for God knows how long, when suddenly a hand tapped my shoulder. I looked up and beamed through the ocean on my face. It was Mr. Bernstein. 

“Hey, Jess, how you feeling?”

He’s the only one who calls me Jess. On my first day of art, he wanted a nickname for me and screamed “Jizzy!” at me. Needless to say, my nickname changed to Jess. 

“Oh, the usual, Mr. Bernstein.”

He knew my life, what was going on. Half — no, more than half the time, it seemed like he was the only one who listened. 

“Is it Tony, or your dad, or…?”

“All of it, Mr. Bernstein.”

I erupted, this time emptying the Atlantic and the Pacific. At this rate, the world would be water-less by third period. 

“Come to my room, let’s talk.”

He beckoned and I followed him to his art room, his studio. I closed my eyes and stepped into the room of familiar smells: I could tell you what was in an art room just from the smell of it. In Mr. Bernstein’s room, there was clay and watercolor and acrylic and… ugh, turpentine, so that meant oil; and… lilac? I opened my eyes to find Mr. Bernstein spraying Febreze everywhere.

“What’d you that for?”

“You know, even an artist gets sick of the smells of his studio sometimes,” he said, laughing.

I spun in a circle, arms out, taking in my home. 

“Not me. I could never get over the smell of the art studio.”

“Oh you will, my dear. Just wait long enough.”

I laughed, a clean laugh that I hadn’t laughed in weeks. 

“Now sit down, Jess, and tell me what’s wrong.”

“Well… Saturday, my dad left — ” 

“Now by “dad,” do you mean your actual dad or your step-dad?”

“Oh, my step-dad. Papa.”

“Okay, continue.”

“Well, Papa, he left again, to go ‘fishing’ again. He expects me to keep his secret for him! Like, he can’t keep sneaking off to his other family every weekend, can he? So I got fed up, and told Mom — ”

“Really? Wow.”

“Well, I was fed up! Anyway, so I told my mom, and she flipped. I think she filed for divorce already. Later that day, I was in my room, and I heard a crash downstairs. I went down, and my mom was on the floor, a piece of glass lodged in her side, the remains of a coffee cup around her. I called the ambulance, and they took her to the hospital. So I’m staying in Nicole’s room till Mom gets back.”

Mr. Bernstein stared at me for a long time after I finished my story. His green eyes seemed to drill into me, searching for more, the stuff I hadn’t said. Yes, I hadn’t told him everything, but he didn’t need to know about Tony. Finally, he sighed and went to his desk. 

“Here, Jess. Have some chocolate.”

“Thanks, Mr. Bernstein.”

He looked at me some more before taking out his own chocolate. He munched on it hungrily. 

“What do you say,” he said in between bites, “that you come down to my studio outside of school, and we do some art tonight. Just to vent.”

“Oh, sure, yeah, I need some venting… but isn’t it weird that it’s just me and you? Like, won’t people get suspi — ”

“Oh, it’s okay, it’s just some art. Besides, you’re a senior, I doubt anyone will care.”

“O-Okay, sure, yeah, I’ll be there.”

He looked relieved, even… delighted? The look was gone before I could properly see it. He looked at his watch and his eyebrows shot up.

“Oh lord, it’s passing period. Well, you better get along then.”

“Oh, wait, I was supposed to meet Mr. Hardy — ”

“It’s okay, I’ll tell Charles I caught you and was talking to you. He’ll let you go. Now get to class, shoo!”

I waved goodbye as I raced out the door and off to English. The rest of the day seemed like a blur of classes. I remember a fistfight, a couple broken noses, and a lot of yelling. When I finally went home (or rather, to Nicole’s house) I ate an orange, then headed off to Mr. Bernstein’s studio. I was hyped for an art session. 

I got there and he opened the door. He was already in a smock; I could see paint cans open and canvases on easels in the back . 

“Oh, you’re here! Great! Come on in, and get painting!”

I walked in, taking off my jacket. I should have worn a smock, but I wanted the feel of the paint on my clothes; I wanted the recklessness. 

We painted for hours it felt like. I remember looking outside once and seeing the sun setting, birds silhouetted against it, the trees a perfect frame. I immediately started painting what I had seen, putting aside the other project I had been working on. 

Mr. Bernstein stopped working at one point and walked over to the kitchen. 

“You want anything? I’ve got water, orange juice, lemonade - vodka?” He laughed, a booming sound that brought shivers to my spine.

“Well, I’m underage, but if I was of age, I’d choose the vodka!”

He came back with a bottle of vodka. He handed me a shot and winked, saying “No one needs to know!”

Soon, we were drunk… 

The vodka was halfway finished. We were sitting on the floor by his couch and staring at each other, the alcohol making it hard to focus on his face. We weren’t talking, just drunkenly watching the room spin and the haze around every object. He was looking at me and ran his warm hands through my hair. He leaned in and kissed me…


	2. Chapter 2

I woke up the next morning in a bed. The pounding in my head made the room around me spin in pirouettes. I wanted nothing more than a twelve-hour nap, even though I had just woken up. I got up, ignoring the hangover, trying to piece together where I was and why I was here. I put on the blanket, unable to find some clothes, and walked out of the bedroom to find Mr. Bernstein on the couch, the only thing covering him being a blanket; paint strewn everywhere, unfinished paintings hanging on easels; and a pile of clothes next to an empty vodka bottle. My breath caught as I walked over to the clothes. The vodka would explain the hangover, but the clothes? I glanced over at the couch, then looked down at my own nakedness, and suddenly the pounding in my head was a typhoon trying to kill and ravage me, pull me to the ground and destroy me; I looked at the clothes again, and they leapt at me, dancing in my vision, catcalling, taunting, accusing - 

I grabbed my clothes and ran out the door — I still had the blanket on, I needed a place to change — I found a 7-Eleven and ran inside to the bathroom and threw my clothes on, glancing at the time on my phone, 11:30, oh gods, I was so late to school, should I even go — and suddenly I was in the office, signing my name in, announcing I was late to school. 

I went to fourth period for ten minutes (never learned anything in History anyway) and followed my friends to lunch. I sat down and spaced out, thinking of my own problems: did I really just do that with him? What happens now? Does he remem - 

“Giselle, hey, you okay?”

I looked up and saw red tinted, platinum blonde hair, a long angular face, eyes as black as my hair, his one earring. My heart skipped steps and my face burned, but I was determined to not get sidetracked.

“What do you want, Tony?”

“I saw you looking off into space, and you get that look whenever you're sad, so I wanted to help…” 

Goddammit! His voice was as musical as before. Everyone always said that he looked like a K-Pop star and I used to brag about that to my friends: Oh, you like [insert name here]? Well, I’ve got Tony, he had the chance to be a K-Pop star, but he turned it down for me! Of course it was a lie, but I liked to make the claim.

“I’m fine, Tony. I just had a rough night.”

“Okay, um, yeah. I actually wanted to talk to — ”

“Tony, no! You had your chance and you refused to -”

“Well, I was mad, then, Giselle, please, give me a chance to explain!”

I sighed, ready to argue, when I heard “prom” from Nicole’s mouth. 

“Hey, Tony, fine, I’ll give you a chance to explain again, but later. Bye.”

I turned back to the discussion at the table, actually paying attention now. Nicole and Brittany were talking about their dates, while the rest of the table was either making out with a guy or on their phone. 

“So, like, Nicole, who’re you going with?”

“Oh, I was waiting for Brad to ask me, but we broke up, so I think I’ll ask Tommy…”

“No way, girl, I was going to ask Tommy!”

“Oh my god, really, no way!”

“Anyway, who’s in charge of transport?”

Nicole started talking like an engine, no breaths, explaining the limo she had rented for all of us. I started counting: one, two, four, dun, dun, dun, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one including me. I stopped. Hadn’t she said there were twenty seats? Who was being kicked out? I was about to ask when she pulled up a picture on her phone.

“So here’s the seating arraignment, and you’re sitting…”

I stopped listening, looking at the picture she pulled. Who was kicked out? There was Amy, Tommy, Tanya, Brittany, Nicole… wait. Where was I?

“Hey, Nicole, you -”

“Later, Giselle, I’m in the middle of something right now!”

I stared at her, then at all the others. It crossed my mind that not one of them had asked me how I was doing, or even noticed how spacey I was. I had trusted them with so much, and not one of them even cared. Now, the person I’ve known since kindergarten is looking at me with disgust, and won’t even talk to me. 

I got up, ready to go talk to Tony, when I felt a hand on my wrist.

“Hey, Giselle, what was it - hey, you okay?”

I stared at her, in shock… This bitch in front of me has the audacity to look at me like that and then ask if I’m okay, as if she did nothing! 

“No! No, I’m not okay! You’re talking about prom, saying ‘Oh I’m going with this person, we’ll meet up here, then we’ll go, he’ll drive, she’ll drive…’ where am I? Do I get cast aside? I thought we were supposed to be a group, but you guys never even considered me when talking about arrangements! Do you know how that feels? You guys, you and your other rich-bitch posse have always had each other, but I’ve never had anyone but myself! Don’t even try to say, ‘Oh, you have me, don’t worry, it’s okay’ because obviously I don’t even cross your mind! Now let go of me!”

She dropped my hand as though it were hot coals, her mouth agape like a fish. Rushing through the cafeteria, I found Tony talking to some of his friends. 

“Hey, Tony, I’m ready to talk.”

\----

I stormed into Art, my mind still on the argument from lunch. Why did Tony think it was okay to cheat, and then say that it was my fault! I sat down in my seat, grabbing my oil paints, and attacked the canvas. In fifteen minutes there was a rose, crushed; a pile of clothes, a blanket, a vodka bottle, a man on a couch, a bird speared on a stick - I stared in fascination and horror at my subconscious painting. All of last night, painted for the world to see; was Tony’s love the rose, or was it Nicole’s betrayal? Then was the bird… A hand on my shoulder startled me; I went to hide the painting, but the hand reached over and picked up the painting. I heard a sigh and smelled a strong whiff of vodka and froze. 

“Well, Giselle, I think we should have a talk. Come with me.”

His voice was ragged and a million miles away; the ocean was closer, roaring in my ears. I realized slowly that he had walked away and got up to follow him, when his words registered, and sat down slowly. Giselle? No Jess? Oh gods, this was not good. 

No, no, no, I was not getting up. I was not walking back to that, to that discussion. I glanced at him. He motioned over, but I walked the other way, grabbing more paint supplies and another canvas, ignoring his coughs and motions. I sat down and began another painting, consciously this time, going for a tiger sitting on a flower, water spilling onto and off the flower like a waterfall - I had seen something like it in my dream a couple days ago and wanted to see it in the real world, when -

“Miss Jackson, please come over here.”

The class suddenly went silent. I cursed him in my head, and hesitated, not wanting the discussion that was bound to happen. 

“Now, Miss Jackson.”

The bell rang, making me jump.

“Class is dismissed, but I still need to see you, Miss Jackson.” 

The class filed out, silent, all looking at me pitifully. I walked over to his desk and sat down opposite him, thankful the passing period was only five minutes. He stared at me, and I stared back, unsure of the power play, till I had to look away: his gaze was so penetrating. 

“Before we begin, you should know that I have already let your seventh period teacher know that you'll be late. So don't even try to escape.”

He walked over to the door and locked it, freezing me into shock. 

“Giselle Cleo Jackson. Whatever shall I do with you? I used to be your confidant, but after last night…”

He leaned into me, letting the scent of vodka smother me - a warning, a taunt. 

“It was supposed to be just an artistic stress-reliever, but it turned into so much more. I brought out a drink, and soon you were drunk. Oh, the things you told me! Tony left you, you had a miscarriage, you’re scared of people with blue hair - just to name a few.”

He leaned into my ear after circling me, each word a vulture screeching for my death, waiting to feast. 

“And let’s not forget about the sex…”

He turned his head and placed his lips on my cheek, pulling me from my frozen stupor. I pulled away just as his mouth grazed the corner of mine.

“First of all, you are a teacher, a forty-year-old man, and I am a seventeen-year-old senior. This is pedophilia, Mr. Bernstein! Second of all, I have a boyfriend!”

He laughed, and my soul stopped. His laugh was one I heard in movies, the one that sent shivers of the wrong sort down my back; that man who waited on the edge of playgrounds and parks, leering at the children till the mothers shooed him away. I began to rush out of the chair, but he pushed back down, his long fingers clamped around my shoulders. How had I never heard it before? 

I knew the answer before the question: I had overlooked it to get the friend I had wanted so badly. 

“You have no boyfriend, my dear,” he whispered into my ear, his tongue flicking out to lick the shell of my ear in a disgusting curve of spit. “You spilled your heart out to me last night. It’s just a few more days till your eighteenth birthday, and a month till graduation, and then it's all okay. So kiss me, my dear.”

He pulled my face in and held my face to his, our lips grazing each other. No matter how I tried, I could not escape; his hands were iron, his grip a vise. He kissed me hard and I withdrew; away my mind flew, away to a place where I could see the stars and nothing but the stars in their cosmic dance, exploding and hiding the bitter truth of the events on earth from me. I was watching my body from the sky, separate yet whole from myself.

He picked me up from the chair, seeing my unconscious body, and smiled, baring all his teeth. Sticking his head out the door, seeing no one, he pulled me from the classroom and dragged me to his car, laying me on the back seat. A quick car ride home took us to his house, the paint and canvases still thrown around. My body was dragged to the bed, and then I looked away. I could not look at us in there, but I could feel the rocking through the connection. It was pulling me back to my body but I held onto the gaseous stars around me, unwilling to go. I closed my eyes till the rocking stopped, then looked over; he had a knife in his hands and was standing over my body.

“Tell me you love me,” he whispered. I didn’t respond; I couldn’t. He raised the knife and I was gone, shooting beyond the stars I had held onto; I was free, free to fly as I wished. Free of my problems: no Tony, no Giselle, no morning-after with my art teacher. No more of my mother’s relapses into drugs and alcohol, no more false dads, no more family problems. Free to fly - 

But wait. What about everyone else? 

The thought stilled my progress through the stars, a sudden cord pulling me back the way I had come. I realized I had to let go of everyone I knew, everything I knew, to be free. I tried yanking at the cord in front of me; I bent and twisted, longing for it to break, but it sensed my thoughts of return and would not budge, until finally I gave in and allowed it to pull me back to the place where I had died. 

I looked around where I was and saw my body laying on the bed, my body which would never know past high school, which would never graduate. I saw the body of the man who had taken it all from me, in one night of supposed fun. I began walking towards the kitchen when I stopped: I wasn’t moving at all. Yes, my legs were moving, but I wasn’t moving anywhere. I tried again, this time moving as I thought ghosts did, consciously floating around, and I glided all the way to the kitchen. I picked up the knife. He couldn't see me as gilded back to him, knife in hand. I stared for a moment at him, wondering if I did this, would I get into heaven? It didn’t matter; I was a nobody if I didn’t make my death matter. 

As I stabbed the knife into his head, I saw his soul fly out - we locked eyes; he accused me in that look, that look of betrayal, hurt, shock; I challenged him with a look back, asking how he felt that after what he did to me; in that look, I charged him with every feeling he’d felt when he touched me, every smile I had turned a blind eye to in order to keep the one person I thought was a friend; our gazes held, and then blinked and was whisked away, his soul flying out beyond the stars, and then - he was gone. I made my way to the phone and called the police, letting the phone sit on the couch, the operator’s yelling in the background as I stared at the paintings we had made, all of them still up on the canvas. 

There was my painting in acrylic and oil, bold shapes of tigers and flowers in pastel colors; waterfalls on different terrains; a cascade of flowers into the mouth of a crow. I turned to Mr. Bernstein’s painting, in watercolor and chalk and colored pencil - and gasped. How had I not noticed the night of the art session? Every one of his pieces was of naked women, all anatomically detailed. Some were in chains and some in performance, but most of them had either opening filled with something and wounds with gushing blood. 

I turned away, nauseous but accepting my mistakes. I was dead, and nothing could change that. I felt lighter suddenly, and looking down, noticed a silver string break in me, seeing the splinters fade dreamily into air, pushing off my nonexistent skin. My form seemed less dense than before; I was losing my hold; I was finishing my business. 

I made my way to Tony’s house, stopping in front of his door. I knocked, then realized I could just walk in. He was on his bed, staring at my picture, silent tears running down his face. I sat next to him, touching his hand. He startled, feeling my hand on his, but seeing nothing, went back to his tears. And so we sat in the red light of his Asian Food Here sign, separate but whole. 

I left Tony when he fell asleep, his cheeks still holding the marks of his tears. The last thing we did before I died was fight. I floated over to his desk and found paper and a pencil, and tried to write him a letter, but - 

the paper began dissolving into silver light the moment my ghostly hand brushed it, the pieces flying around the room. I stared in distress, no, no, I needed those, he needs to hear me - and as if responding to my thoughts, a thousand threads grew from my outstretched fingertips, stilled the papers, connecting them -

But they did nothing. They had stilled in the air, but they did not come to me no matter how hard I tugged on the strings. I could feel tears in my eyes, little pools of emotion threatening to spill. I let go of my hold on the scraps of light and watched as they floated away like a ghostly inferno. One last glance at Tony, and then I was off, flying through the air to the hospital. My mother needed me. 

I knelt next to her bed. Mama. My beautiful, struggling Mama. She’d been through three men already, each one perfect till they got tired of her. Papa had been the last straw. Here she was now, defeated, broken. She had had enough. She didn’t deserve to live, if it only means suffering. And I was selfish: I wanted to see her, have her with me in a place we could interact.

I reached over and turned the dial up, pumping the liquids into her body, overwhelming her; her body started spasming, unable to hold it all, till finally her heart gave way. I waited to see her, to see her soul come out of her body and then back in. She finally flew past me, not looking back once. I cried that night, cried for the first time since I’ve died, gold droplets of light that splattered out and faded on the hospital floor, twinkling jewels of fools gold, jewels of sadness that shined with the light of stolen happiness. 

I spent the rest of the night visiting friends, writing notes that dissolved into the night. As dawn started, I rose above the city, seeing all the souls who had opted to stay on Earth watching their loved ones, acting as guardian angels; I saw the ones who had completed their purpose, shooting off into the stars to the place where Mama went; I saw new deaths either leave peacefully or stay, tethered by that same silver string. 

Time seemed to move quickly from then on. I would close my eyes for just a moment and a month would pass. More and more strings broke as people accepted my death and I finished my tasks; soon, I was little more than an outline of silver threads in the vague shape of a girl. The years progressed. I watched the world below me change. 

Nicole found herself abandoned by her rich-friend group, alone to take the blunt knife of grief. I watched as she buried herself in drugs, doing coke, heroin, meth - all by the time she was twenty. I helped as much as I could, hiding her drugs, keeping her syringes away, but she found them anyway. She died at the age of twenty-four from a drug overdose.

Her funeral was quite different from mine. Hers was lavish and heartbreaking, while mine was simple and underfunded. To mine, only about fifty people showed up; she had thousands of mourners. I had a simple dinner in my honor; she had extravagant meals for a week. My casket was closed; her casket was open, and she looked as she did in high school, pink and frilly and on top of the world. It hurt to see her face once more coated in makeup - as much as I hated it, it was a reminder that she was there, it was a reminder that she was her. I had grown accustomed to seeing the dark black circles, the pissed-off mood she seemed to be perpetually in, the constant cold, the sleepless nights, the nausea and diarrhea and vomit, the white powder sometimes on her face. When her dad closed her eyes, I was there with him. When he closed her casket, I was there with him. When she was buried, I was there with him, crying in the rain. 

I saw her soul leave her grave, as if it had been waiting, watching the festivities. I watched as she was pulled away, then pulled back, just like me. We locked eyes and embraced for the first time in years. A tearful catch-up lasted two days, and then she flew away to finish her own tasks, promising to see me one last time before she left. 

Papa and the other men cried for both Mama and me. As much they hurt us, they really did love us. Papa cried the hardest when he learned we were dead. He went home that day and wrote a name down, determined: Mindy Giselle Jackson. A memoir of my mom and I, a living recollection with him for all eternity. A girl born on March 12th, my birthday. Seven pounds, two ounces. I traveled to the hospital on the night she was born, and found the room crowded with grandparents, friends, and others. I had planned to be a guardian for this baby, but she had enough from everyone else, I assumed, and went to walk away, but decided to see Papa before I left. 

As I made my way through, the crowd of souls fell silent and parted, leaving way for the girl who their precious angel was named for. I made it to the bed without crying, but when I saw the baby, Papa, and his other wife, looking so happy, I let it go silently. The tears twinkled as they faded on the white hospital floor, the sound of bells filling the air as the others joined me with their tears. I kissed the baby, held her tiny hand, wished it well. I kissed my step-dad, held his hand, brushed his face. He looked up as I brushed his face, as though seeing me where I was, the tears anew. Out loud, he said it was nothing but a hallucination from the lack of sleep, but I knew he knew the truth within him. I flew away and watched the child grow up from a distance. 

The day Papa died, I was there, waiting for his soul. He emerged slowly, as if from a deep sleep. He hugged me when he saw me, tears in both our eyes. He asked me where Mama was, and when I was silent, he hugged one more time, whispering, I need to make it right. Goodbye, Giselle. I love you. He knew better than to ask me to come with him; he knew I would come in my own time. 

The only person I distanced myself for the years was Tony. I watched from a distance, unwilling to commit myself to him.

Tony knew the “dream” he’d had was really true - I had been there, comforted him. He could feel it as though it was the truth, but had no proof, no basis for which to go beyond his own conviction. It was still hard for him to move beyond me, beyond the grief, but I watched as he eventually did, aided by me, find a life beyond me and high school. He went to school for art, and turned out amazing at it. His final project was a girl and a guy sitting on a bed under a red sign, touching hands, the girl a silver being of light - an eternal memory of that night. 

He met a girl in art school, and they started dating after a year of being friends. I was over the moon with joy; I’d been rooting for them, since they acted like they were back in high school. They broke up mutually to pursue their dreams - him, an art school; her, a film director - and I was below the horizon, crying. 

She went on to make a feature film about a woman who dies and lives on as a ghost to complete her mission to her husband. I sat through the advanced screening with Tony, and when I saw the small Inspired by the story of Giselle Jackson, I cried with Tony. When we hugged her, she felt only him, but I was there too. 

They got back together after that, boyfriend and girlfriend. He was in the media more often now due to her status, and used it to advocate causes he knew I loved - Habitat for Humanity, Save Our Starving Children - and suicide prevention, since the official police report was that I was a suicide. I kissed him asleep every night, and tucked him in. After they moved in together, I kissed both of them asleep, my little couple. 

On the day he went to get the ring, I helped steer him to the one I had seen her look at so much before. I helped him choose the night - and oh, what a night. 

They were in Paris for their 6th year anniversary of dating, and she was standing, her backless dress to the floor, flapping in the wind, silhouetted against the light of the Eiffel Tower. I guided his shaking hands to her shoulder, drawing her attention; I guided his mouth closer to a kiss, one of love and beauty; I helped him onto his knees and then, he needed no help. The ring was out, the question asked, the answer _yesathousandtimesyes_ in a breathless scream. 

They went on a honeymoon to India, the place I had always wanted to visit. Through them, I saw all 29 states of India; I saw the tigers in the jungle; I saw the Taj Mahal, Mysore Palace, The Red Fort - I lived through them for a week. 

Then, came the baby. They talked and raged and fought for days on the name. Finally they decided on Eleanor Giselle Kim - my memory, sandwiched between them. When she was born, they held her in their arms, and I wept with Tony. They kissed her tiny forehead and I swooped in and gave my own kiss, one that marked me as the guardian of this child, no one else. I felt the thin silver lines that made me thicken, solidifying my place on Earth for just a while longer. 

The child grew and grew and grew. Her life was filled with adventure and peace, and then she went off to be an actor, succeeding her mom as president of the directing studio eventually. 

I saw both of them at their funerals. Tony’s soul came through first, and when he saw me, there was no end to the tears. They flowed fast and hard, crashing like drums against the floor, fading away into nothingness. His wife came next, greeting me much the same as Tony, and then we went off together to watch over our child. 

She found a man at 16, but lost him at 17. She found a woman at 21, but lost her at 23. She found a man at 26 and kept him, together like her parents, inseparable. They got married on August 8th, a hot day on the beach. They had three children; Tony claimed the eldest, I took the middle, and Tony’s wife took the youngest. We watched over them as they grew beyond their parents, generation after generation. 

When the youngest great-grandchild got married, we all cried tears, the noise mixing with the bells of the church. As he danced in his honeymoon, I could feel myself slipping away; my threads were unraveling; I had stayed long enough. I told my goodbyes to Tony and his wife. I brushed my blessing on all the children and Eleanor and her husband. I blessed Mindy’s kids, having said goodbye to Mindy a few years earlier. I found Nicole and I said goodbye to her. I went to Mama’s grave. I reached out and touched it, saying my goodbyes to the woman who had raised me through hell. 

As I touched it, my last string unraveled and I was hurtling through space, but at my own pace. I saw the different scenes in my life flash before me. 

When I was two, and my dad was still around. 

When I was five, and my dad left.

When I was seven, and Mama found Dave. 

When I was ten, and Dave left. 

When I was twelve, and Mama found Papa. 

When I was fifteen, and I entered high school. 

When I was fifteen, and first started talking to Mr. Bernstein. 

When I was sixteen, and I found Tony. 

When I was seventeen, and I found myself naked in Mr. Bernstein’s house. 

When I was seventeen, and I died. 

Mama’s funeral.

Nicole’s funeral. 

Mr. Bernstein’s funeral. 

Papa’s funeral. 

Tony’s marriage. 

The baby. 

The children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. 

Mama’s grave. 

Then I was waltzing through the stars again, dancing with each one in turn. The music was my tears, the bells tinkling into eternity. I could still hear the couple’s dance from the wedding a million miles away, and my tears fell faster, remembering my life and afterlife, the sweet taste of it all:

_Just like a star across my sky_

_Just like an angel off the page_

_You have appeared to my life_

_Feel like I'll never be the same_

_Just like a song in my heart_

_Just like oil on my hands_

_Oh, I do love you._


End file.
